


Money Talks

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, PWP, Shameless Smut, money kink?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:18:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3509813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>North Yankton-era Michael and Trevor, after stealing an armored truck filled to the brim with cash. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Money Talks

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the prompt by rockford-drive over at tumblr:  
> I’m going to regret this, but can anybody draw/write T and M fucking on top of a pile of cash?

The doors to the armored truck swung open, and Michael scrambled inside. He couldn’t make it in very far.

"Oh, jesus… Jesus, T." Michael wiped a hand over his face, covering his mouth. His eyes shone. "It’s beautiful." His voice was muffled by his hand, almost afraid to speak up. As if he could speak just a little too loudly, and then suddenly by some weird cosmic force everything would be spirited way.

The truck wasn’t small by any means— the back was actually quite large and spacious, large enough for Michael to stand up straight without a hint of hunching. But it was absolutely filled to the brim with large wads of cash. From his rough estimation, they were at least in the tens of thousands range.

Trevor hoisted himself inside, closing the doors of the van behind him with a grunt. His arms stretching upward, fingertips dragging up against the metal roof. “Awww, Mikey,” He drawled, back popping as he arched it, grin voracious. They had just very barely managed to out speed the cops in the weighed-down van. Even with Michael behind the wheel, who was a much more competent driver, it hadn’t been a smooth ride for an overloaded van in the slushy mix that spring had brought the sticks of North Yankton. But it was the biggest amount they had ever pulled in during the year they had worked together. “I can’t believe it. We’re fathers.” He let out a faux-sniff, wrapping an arm around Michael and bringing the man in close. “Isn’t it just so precious?”

Michael laughed, somewhat uncomfortably, and tried to shoulder his way out of Trevor’s grip. “Yeah yeah, but it’s time to split the custody.” Trevor’s grip was not so surprisingly strong, and Michael couldn’t manage to fully get himself out of his grasp while still being casual about it, and Trevor made no move to release him, “We need to contact Lester. We need to find a better place to stash this, too, and we need to get this out to be cleane-”

"YEAHyeahyeahyeah—" The hand not around Michael shot over to, as gently as was humanly possible for Trevor Philips, pap him on the mouth, startling the other man into silence, "Shut the fuck up." Trevor interrupted, finally letting the other man go as he promptly shucked off his pants. Michael blinked at the dirty jeans that were pooled around the other man’s shoes. "I’m rolling around in this shit before Lester launders a single paper."

A beat. “Are you serious?”

"Dead serious, compadre." Trevor’s coat, and then his shirt followed, leaving him in a pair of tattletale grey underwear, his boots, and a ushanka plopped on his head, the ears of it flopping as he strutted right up to the cash. "You need to stop stressing out so much, bro. We fucking did it. Look at this!" He twirled around, arms held out high, before gracefully flopping back on the hard pile of cash. It had been stacked and relatively orderly before they had stopped the truck. It was Trevor, of course, who had shouldered Michael hard, and gestured to the two portly man puffing and panting as they offloaded way too much cash into a poorly guarded van. The plus of being in bumble-fuck nowhere.

"C’mon. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Just Scrooge McDucking your way through a pool of coins.” He picked up a brick, running a thumb over the green, crisp edges. “And then Scrooge McDucking your way through all of the hookers, blow, and booze that money can buy."

Michael ducked his head, scuffing his boots against the floor. He glanced back up. Trevor had started to push some of the money wads towards him, creating armrests for his cash throne as he sat wide-legged. Michael’s eyes were drawn to his lanky legs, the wiry hairs of his calves and thighs. Curly hair dusted the inside of his thighs, lead up and in the legs of his underwear, and then from the waistband a dark trail lead up from his belly button. His chest had smatterings of hair also, that lead up to practically his collar bone. And then, that fucking mustache of his, the handlebar that was the punchline to the majority of his come-ons towards women.

Trevor cleared his throat.

“Wanna join the throne? You can be the Queen to my King, Mikey-boy.” Michael’s eyes tore away from Trevor’s body up to his face. He was patting the spot next to him, eyebrows traveling up to touch the furry brim of his hat.

It took a moment of hesitation, before Michael stepped forward. The hand tapping the cash immediately went up. “Uh uh uh… this is a no pants dance, bucko. Off.”

Michael stopped. “You can’t b-“

“Serious. Yes. After a year, and you’re already so god damn predictable?”

Michael’s eyes narrowed with a glare, and he didn’t break eye contact as he pointedly undid his belt. His pants dropped, and though the act of shaking the legs of his pants off his feet while glaring heatedly at a smug Trevor made the other man laugh, he absolutely refused to break eye contact. He would like to have thought that Trevor was cowering to his incredible glower, but as each piece of clothing went off the other man’s eyebrows lifted higher, and high, and his grin grew.

This pissed off Michael. An annoyed, naked Michael, in his boots, and his boxers. A face full of stubble, his buzzed hair, and those wild blue eyes. That was it. So damn predictable, huh—

Michael tromped up and past Trevor, and hefted himself right up and over the other man, nearly teabagging Trevor in the process. The Canadian ducked reflexively, swatting in Michael’s general groin area. “Watch your fat ass—!”

“Yeah, well,” He scrambled to get a leg up and over a pile to the tallest part, having to hunch over so his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling. “I’m the highest one now, fucker. I’m the king.” Michael blustered, his chest puffing out.

Trevor leaned over, pointing, “You fuckin’ with me? You? You’re the king?”

“Yeah. I’m the king, now.” He planted his legs wide, on well-placed and incredibly convenient cash pillars, and held out his hands. His voice’s lilt went up, in what was supposed to be a mockery of Trevor’s voice: “Dead. Serious.”

If Michael was predictable, Trevor less so—though, maybe it _was_ predictable, to be tackled over by a mostly naked, wild-eyed Trevor Philips over a pile of money with a barely contained raging hard-on. The van rocked at the impact of their two bodies as Trevor pinned Michael down by his wrists. Michael bucked his hips; a pile of cash fell on top of Trevor’s back. From the small back window of the armored van the fast fading light streamed in, threw Trevor’s face into deep shadows. It was them, and the sound of their breathing, the feel of wads of cash jutting hard against Michael’s back, and the smell of dollars and sweat.

Michael threw his body upward, using his pinned hands to propel himself and his lips crashing up. Trevor barked a laugh back against Michael’s mouth, all teeth, tongues. His hands weren’t free, but they didn’t need to be, not with his teeth latching onto Trevor’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. Trevor finally relented, his bony fingers just loosening enough around Michael’s thick wrists; he wrenched his hands free and grabbed Trevor by the shoulder’s, rolling on top of him.

“Fuck—“

Michael wedged a fat thigh between Trevor’s legs. His clothed cock practically burned against his skin. His breath came out in pants.

“Who’s the king?”

Trevor blinked up at him, jaw still slack. There was a healthy flush to his face. “ _What?_ ”

Michael grabbed Trevor’s crotch, ground the heel of his palm against the heat of his throbbing erection. No sound came from his lips, but he arched up, wordlessly, into his touch. Eager. “Who—“

He palmed his dick, grasped his shaft through the thin material of his briefs. “Is.”

His hands rubbed up, where the head of Trevor’s cock was perfectly outlined by the tautness of his underwear, and the quickly growing wet spot of pearlescent precome staining the front. “The—“

And through his underwear, Michael stroked, thumbed the slit of his head. Trevor, finally, _finally_ keened low in his throat, rutted up against those stupidly thick, rough hands as his own shot up to grab Michael’s hips. Trevor’s skin, relatively smooth but already riddled with slight imperfections—the bullet that had nicked his shoulder during their first bank robbery, childhood scars of beatings from a switch that went just a little bit too hard—  glowed; it paired perfectly with his wide eyes, his knotted eyebrows, and the unadulterated look of arousal with a sheen of worship. “ _King._ ”

Trevor exhaled; his ribs quivered, and reflexively Michael reached his free hand up to palm his body, listen to the hitched breathing of the lanky psychotic under him. “You are.” His voice was just a wheeze, barely a whisper.

Michael’s hand dipped below the band of his briefs, and he took Trevor into his hand, pumping his dick languidly. He had all of the time in the world, though even in his baggy boxers Michael’s erection was obviously, painfully hard. “Little louder, T.”

Trevor’s fingers dug into the flesh of Michael’s hips as he grit his teeth. Michael twisted his wrist, quickened his pace. “Christ, Mikey- yer the King,” Michael’s other hand started to yank down Trevor’s underwear fully as he kept pumping. “You’re the king—“

“On your knees.”

Michael wasn’t always like this. But when he did, Trevor almost— _almost_ ¬—didn’t mind the lack of foreplay. Post-job fucks were categorized by a testosterone filled power-play, and Mikey was almost always overeagerly trying to shove his dick into him. Hell, he was almost as eager just to have someone pounding into him. He barely had time to roll onto his hands and knees before Michael was grabbing his ankles and yanking him back, his still-clothed cock snug against the cleft of Trevor’s ass. There were going to be imprints of dead presidents on their knees and palms. Michael considered, out of the two of them, Trevor was the id to his super-ego. And here, ass in the air, back arched in a way Michael could count the vertebrae of his spine, he seemed more animal than human. He stood to grab T’s coat. He always carried condoms and lube on him, always prepared like some damn sexual boy scout, and Michael took the time that he had to search for to pull his cock from the slit in his boxers and fist himself.

Trevor glanced over his shoulder, watched Michael’s groin, and his own hands slipped—

“Don’t.”

Trevor’s hand faltered, devouring the vision of a nearly naked Michael Townley approaching him with cock and hand and lube in the other. He watched Michael settle down behind him, unceremoniously slapping his dick against his ass with the kind of smirk that simultaneously shot right to his cock and absolutely infuriated him at the same time.

“Not until I say,” Michael released his cock to grab at Trevor’s ass, spreading his cheeks and immediately pressing a slicked finger to his hole. The other man’s body fought to relax, but Michael, blustering with youth and arousal, pushed onward, using his other hand reach around to grab Trevor’s shaft. He stroked him hard, fast, making sure that even with the dull pain of his finger pushing in, the burn as he inserted another one, Trevor’s wouldn’t falter.

He didn’t want to fuck the man with a flagging erection; openly, he would say it was because he was such a gentleman and generous lover, but Trevor wasn’t a woman, and he had no real sense of societal chivalric obligation to him. No, Michael wouldn’t admit it, not Michael quarterback Townley, but he wanted to fuck an animal, with bouncing cock and balls slapping. Wanted to _dominate_ , and wanted to dominate something entirely masculine. But the way his fingers curled in Trevor, to him, it almost _felt_ like chivalry, felt like they were the fingers of someone who cared for him for his own sake. Trevor jerked forward as Michael’s finger’s found that spot, a groan choking past his lips.

No, between those touches and Michael pumping at his dick, Trevor wouldn’t be flagging anytime soon. His little sense of modesty and self-preservation flew out the window as Michael spread his fingers, tried to stretch him, unwind him bit by bit. He was moaning openly, and just as he was about to reach his peak Michael’s fingers thrust once, twice, then removed himself, and his hand stilled to hold Trevor firmly around the base of his shaft. _Not yet._

Michael pumped himself once with his slick hand, and after the sound of the wrapper tearing and a quick fumbling he was lining up the head of his cock with Trevor’s eager hole. There wasn’t any fanfare, save for his own heavy breathing, as he ran his free hand over the goose bumps prickling up on Trevor’s bare ass. He slowly pushed in; Trevor’s body throbbed around him, and for the first time Michael groaned, like a valve letting off steam, long and low.

He got his head in before meeting resistance; Trevor’s body was tensing, arms wobbling. Michael draped himself over Trevor’s prone form, pressed kisses to his ear. “T, Trevor,” Michael breathed, catching his earlobe momentarily between his front teeth. “Relax. Look at all this money. Look at all this god damn money. I’m going to fuck you over it, and we’re going to mark it. Not Lester’s, not the banks, but fuckin’ ours.”

Trevor’s body trembled, and he shook his head like a wet dog, tried to shake his head clear. “Christ— Christ, Michael. I get it, I don’t—“ He didn’t want to say, slow down, didn’t want to hold him back. Fuck, he could practically come just from just hearing Michael whispering in that husky voice of his, even if his words were some narcissistic garbage that boiled down to him wanting Lester to accidentally touch a jizz stained pile of twenties. He hung his head, sweaty forehead braced against Benjamin Franklin’s visage as Michael pulled back, thick hands eagerly rubbing his side, a pantomime of caring. His voice raised, almost cracked as Michael tried to edge in a little more, “Just, give me a fucking MOMENT—“

It was a minute for Philips, and an hour for Townley, before Trevor hesitantly pushed back. Michael exhaled as he eased in, muttered nonsense, and sheathed himself inside of Trevor. He pulled back an inch, pushed in, and started to rock his hips. Trevor’s cock bounced against his stomach as Michael’s pace quickened and he pulled hard at Trevor’s hips. He was young, he was eager, and he started with vigor. Every other thurst hit Trevor’s prostate, made his knees wobble dangerously.

“M—! Fuck, fuck, Mikey, fuck—“ The car was rocking with their movement, and Trevor was wonton with his noises. Trevor was being loud, too loud. They were parked in an alleyway, not a sound-proof room, and though the thrill of fucking (his male, best friend, still in a hot vehicle no doubt on the police radar) like this tugged at Michael somewhere deep in his balls, he wasn’t as careless as Trevor. Michael reached over, fumbling to grab the nearest bundle of cash and pressing it against the other man’s lips. He sounded out, and took it eagerly, bit down hard and tasted the bitter fibers.

Michael’s eyes darkened at the sight, just over the curve of Trevor’s shoulder, and his eyes swept up the man’s back, the curve of his spine, the dip of his back and the way he looked speared on his cock. “Touch yourself.”

It was a simple command. Trevor’s hand shot to his sorely neglected cock, jerking in earnest now. He thrust hard into Trevor, soft hips against his bony ass, the sound of their bodies slapping together and Trevor’s money-muffled moans.

It didn’t take long after that for Michael to suddenly grab Trevor with increased vigor, pull Trevor’s ass against him harder and faster than he had before, far gone enough that he even allowed some groans to escape his mouth. It was over, too fast, too fast, and Trevor’s growl that sounded like a feral, muffled version of _“Rrrr, MIKEY—!”_ was loud through the stack of bills as Michael pulled out and unceremoniously flopped down on the pile beside him.

By the time Michael had regained what little care a 21 year old could possibly give post-orgasm, Trevor was already sounding out his orgasm; he glanced over at his form, still on his hands and knees. The ear flap of his hat was covering his face, but he didn’t need to see his features. The stilted, vicious jerk of his cock, the animalistic moans, and that wad of cash with the light imprint of teeth laid at his hand. Michael threw an arm over his face, sighing heavily.

Next to him, the van rocked slightly as Trevor wobbled to his feet, grabbing a brick of cash as he stood.

“Michael?”

He threw his arm back off his face, blinking up. Trevor was standing above him, cash sitting on an open palm. “T?”

With a jerk, the paper wrapper around the stack ripped right off. Michael quirked an eyebrow. He wasn’t actually going to—he wouldn’t—

Green bills started to rain down on Michael (some, slightly moist) and they fluttered down in a steady stream to the sound of Michael’s disbelieving groans and the sound of Trevor’s maniacal laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, I'm hello-imasalesman over on tumblr, feel free to send me prompts or just to say hi and talk about GTA. :) Thanks for reading!


End file.
